


Path of Needles (Excerpt)

by Aiisling



Series: Paths [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Kelpies, LGBTQ Character, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, M/M, New York City, Oh hey yeah so this is from a book I wrote, Path of Needles, The Firebird, Urban Fantasy, Well - Freeform, a book series, gritty fairy tales
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiisling/pseuds/Aiisling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Growing up in New York City, I thought I'd been exposed to the stranger parts of life. </p><p>But then a night-club singer warned me that my father was going to disappear--and the next day he did, leaving my apartment trashed and full of poisonous dog-demons that nobody but my brother & I could see. </p><p>That's not even the weird part. </p><p>What's weird is the boy from my French class who first tried to drown me, and then saved my life. What's weirder is the Rose Queen, a real-life fairy queen with the hots for my dad and who wants to destroy the world. What's extra-oh-my-god-seriously? weird are the dozens of fairy tale characters who are A) real and B) not as innocent as I remember. </p><p>Now I'm being chased by demons and wicked princes and racing to meet a deadline set a thousand years ago.</p><p>Welcome to my life. My name is Kat Finnegan, I'm 17, and this is the part where the chaos begins."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Midnight Ball

 

"An all-important part of our response to the world of the tales is our instinctive sense that they have rules."

-A.S. Byatt, The Annotated Brothers Grimm

 

"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but a whimper."

-T.S. Elliot

 

 

 

       The clock was about to strike midnight as I stood beside a potted bamboo plant, nursing a stolen glass of wine and praying no one would see me. My red dress chafed. My high-heels were killing me. The noise level in the gallery was almost deafening. And if I had to listen to one more person talk about the weather, I was going to scream.

And speak of the devil...

"Kat!"

Phil, my father's literary agent, had spotted me. I tried to pretend I hadn't heard him but it was too late. He was already motioning for me to join him. I smothered my groan, both at the thought of the conversation and the pain in my feet, and walked over to where he stood with a few other people.

"Hey, Kat," he said eagerly. "We were just discussing all the weird weather we've been having. Did you feel the earthquake last week? An earthquake in New York City. Still can't believe it."

A blond woman cut in before I could answer. "I heard it was solar flares. That's what caused the tsunami in Japan, you know. Terrible stuff. All those deaths."

"Nonsense," said a young man. I'd forgotten his name, but I was pretty sure he worked for NPR. His face was flushed and he slurred his speech a bit. "It's Global Warming. Those goddamned Republicans have been ignoring us for decades and now they're getting their proof. Tsunamis in Japan, earthquakes in New York City, tornadoes in Alaska. Alaska! And they gave us crap for the electric car!"

The young man suddenly turned to me, an expectant look on his face.

"Well?" he blustered. "Don't you agree?"

"Uh..."

"Don't be ridiculous," Phil cut in. "Her father is Jonathan Finnegan. Of course she agrees. All this nonsense about the Mayans, on the other hand..."

"What?!"

Thus began a heated debate in which I had little interest. Fortunately I spotted my uncle, Hank, standing beside the buffet table with a plate of fruit.

"I think I see my uncle," I muttered and made my escape. I weaved my way through the crowd of polished literati, avoiding anyone who might recognize me as my father's daughter. Waiters in black suits and glittering masks mingled with the crowd. They carried trays of drinks and the small finger foods partygoers like to admire but not eat. One stopped in my path. He was slighter than most men and had on a silver mask that extended into the air like wings beside his face.

There was something almost familiar about him. It might have been his thin lips, or the sharp, aristocratic slope of his nose. He didn't speak, just held up a tray filled with a dozen glasses of red wine.

"I'm good, thanks," I spluttered, holding up my half-full glass.

The waiter smiled and inclined his head, leaving before I could figure out who he looked like. The whole interaction had taken ten seconds, but it was disorienting. I wrote it off to the wine and hurried over to Hank.

He looked distinguished, as always, with his grey hair and closely cropped beard. The vintage Pink Floyd tee shirt he wore under his suit gave him an edge of cool that fit well with his New York art gallery. Hank was not his original name. He'd changed it before we were born, when he came to America and found people unable to pronounce his Russian name. He also wasn't my uncle by blood. But he and my father had been friends for longer than I'd been alive, and they might as well have been brothers. He'd helped to raise me, and in some ways, was closer to Roger and I than our father.

"Save me," I pleaded as I stopped at his side.

Hank chuckled under his breath and reached out to pluck the wine glass from my hand.

"Good try, Kat," he said.

"I was drinking that!"

"So you see the problem."

I huffed in annoyance and stole a chocolate covered apricot off his plate.

"The gallery looks really nice," I said around my mouthful of fruit.

Hank's gallery, Crossroads, took up the first floor of what had once been a bank. The original tin plate ceiling had been restored, so it reflected the soft lights that hung in a dozen chandeliers around the room. The walls were unevenly plastered, exposing red brick in some places and leaving others a pure, shock white. It made a lovely backdrop for the mixture of paintings and sculptures Hank featured. Right now he had a collection of paintings from artists in Brooklyn.

Hank had gone the extra mile for tonight. Tables were set up around the room, holding exotic foods and tall glasses of champagne and red wine. Polished men and women in shimmering clothes flitted from table to table, group to group, networking and generally enjoying their status as beautiful people.

"Your father made the New York Times," Hank said softly. "What else could I do?" He gestured towards the table behind him. In the center was a tastefully framed copy of the article about my father's newest book. His face grinned charmingly back at us from behind the glass. Every table bore a similar frame.

Hank leaned towards me and wagged his eyebrows. "Besides, it is good advertisement. I already sold three paintings, including the Borgious."

"Seriously?" I gasped. The painting was worth enough to cover the tuition at my private school for two years. Hank had been trying to sell it for ages. "Congratulations, Hank!"

Hank grinned, looking supremely pleased with himself.

Another masked waiter, a girl with a metallic blue facemask, stopped and offered us crab cakes. I wrinkled my nose as Hank took one.

"The waiters are a little creepy," I said when she had gone. "It's the masks."

"I thought they were festive," Hank murmured. "You father liked them."

"Where is dad, anyways?" I asked. I shifted my weight to my left foot as the right started to scream at me.

In response, Hank pointed to the corner of the room where dad was holding court. I saw a small crowd. My father's animated gestures could be seen over the tops of their heads. I smiled as the group exploded with bright laughter. Jonathan Finnegan had that effect on people. He was the kind of person that, in an argument, would tell you exactly why you were wrong and get you to buy him a drink as he explained. His charm was infectious.

Somewhere, a clock struck midnight. The soft chimes filtered through the noisy room, reminding me how much my feet hurt and how tired I was going to be at school the next day. I decided I'd stayed long enough.

Turning back to Hank, I said, "I think I'm going to head home. Will you let him know I left?"

"Of course," Hank agreed. "Did you finish your homework before the party?"

"It was easy," I said, grabbing another apricot. "Nothing for Pre-calculus because we had a sub, I've already read Pride and Prejudice about a hundred times, and I did French at lunch. No problem."

"You're going home with Roger?" he added.

"Not that I need the chaperone, but yes."

Hank, perhaps wisely, didn't say anything. Instead, he held out his arm and hugged me around the shoulders.

"Text me when you get home. And I will make sure Jonathan returns in one piece," he added, correctly reading my expression.

"Thanks, Hank." I hugged him back and then ducked out to find my twin.

A door at the back of the gallery took me into a quiet hallway. I shut it behind me, blocking off the sounds of the party. The quiet was a welcome relief, and I took a moment to enjoy it before walking over to Hank's small office and pushing open the door. Predictably, Roger was hiding from the scary intellectuals. I found him asleep on Hank's couch, his feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest. He was using his suit jacket as a pillow.

I leaned over to shake him awake and wrinkled my nose at the smell of his breath. He'd been more successful at sneaking booze than me.

"Come on, Roger. Get up," I said.

"Time to go?" he muttered as he stood and stretched. Though we were the same height, Roger always seemed much bigger than me. It was an illusion that sprang from all the muscles lacrosse had put on him. "Thank Christ. I hate these things."

"It's a big deal. Have you ever been in the New York Times?" I said, walking over to the rack in the corner where I'd left my leather jacket and purse. Rummaging inside my bag, I pulled out a pair of flats and slid the heels off with a sigh.

"It's always the Times, or the Post, or the Hawaii Literary Review," Roger complained.

"Why did you even come, then?"

"Hank made me," he said with a shrug. I bit back a sigh. Hank was becoming the only person Roger would listen to. They had always been close. Stocky, stubborn Roger was more like Hank than he was our father. But part of me was a little bit sad that Roger and our father were so distant. It wasn't even that they disliked each other. They were just very different people.

"It wouldn't kill you to show a little support now and then," I said anyways as I pulled on the flats.

Roger rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay. You heard from Jim at all?"

Jim, our best friend, should have been at the party, but he was home sick with the flu. I knew for a fact that he was feeling better--I'd texted him earlier. That didn't mean I had to share my information. Lately, Roger had been acting strangely around Jim and I was getting sick of it.

I raised an eyebrow. "You've got a cell phone. Why don't you call him?"

"Too late now," Roger muttered, tucking his fists into his pockets.

I had to suppress a sigh. Boys. So clueless.

I threw the heels in my bag and pulled on my jacket, then checked my cell phone. No texts or missed calls. We had about twenty minutes before the subway closed for the night.

"We better hurry."

"Yes, mom."

I punched him in the shoulder and he laughed at me.

We snuck out the back to avoid the rest of the party, grabbed the subway back into Greenwich Village, and were home just before one. As soon as I stepped into my bedroom, I stripped off the uncomfortable dress and let it fall onto the floor. Stuffy and dizzy from the wine, I cracked open my window before falling into bed in just my underwear. I managed to shoot Hank a text, letting him know we got home safe, and then I was out.

 

 

 

 _There was snow everywhere, and something was chasing me. I tripped, landing on my face and cutting my cheeks on the icy snow. There was a roar behind me. I had time to turn around, to throw my arms up, and then_ \--

I sat up with a gasp, sweat pouring down my face. I was panting, my heart racing, the sheets twisted around my legs; all the classic symptoms of a nightmare. When my heart slowed, I fell back on my bed and pushed my sweaty hair out of my face.

I tried to remember what had been chasing me, but as was always the case with dreams, it disappeared as soon as I tried to focus on the memory. The only thing I remembered clearly was the cold. In fact, I was still cold. It clung to my skin, raising goose bumps along my arms. That, at least, was explainable. I looked to the right and saw that I'd left the window open overnight, letting in the November breeze.

My alarm blasted me with AM radio. Cursing, I rolled over and tried to turn it off. Instead, I knocked it to the floor. The news filtered through my mattress, filling the room with muffled static.

"...strange weather patterns continuing, with unseasonable heat in Europe sending electricity bills soaring. In other news, President Thompson announced today that 15 million in federal funds will be set aside to help recovery efforts in Japan..."

I finally untangled myself from my sheets and got out of bed. I found the alarm's power cord and tugged, unplugging the stupid thing, and then slammed my window shut before heading to the bathroom.

In the shower I turned the heat up as high as it would go, letting the water wash away any lingering chill. Soothed, I threw on some skinny jeans, grabbed a clean tank top, and dragged my butt into the kitchen, leaving my body about 15 minutes to absorb as much caffeine as possible. Thankfully I'd talked dad into one of those coffee pots that comes with an automatic timer, so all I had to do was grab my favorite mug and pour.

My father wandered into the kitchen just as I was putting some Pop-Tarts in the toaster. I picked up my coffee and peeked at him from the corner of my eye; what I saw wasn't reassuring. It was pretty clear that he hadn't yet recovered from the night before by the way he clutched the edge of the table and the deep bags under his eyes. A bit of silver glitter glinted on his forehead.

"Morning, dad," I said from over the rim of my cup. He grunted back at me, wincing at the kitchen's bright fluorescent lights. "You're up early."

"Too early," he mumbled, groping for the bottle of painkiller that lived on the kitchen table. My father's British accent was thicker today, as it always was after a night of heavy drinking. "Bloody stupid alarm clock."

"How long did it last after I left?"

"Four AM," he said. I winced in sympathy. "Hank called me a cab." The toaster popped. At the noise, my dad winced and shut his eyes a little more.

I took pity on him and poured him a cup of coffee. He popped a couple of pills into his mouth and washed them down with the coffee while it was still steaming. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. "Cheers, darling. You're the best."

I sighed and downed the rest of my coffee. Setting my mug down, I began to eat my breakfast. "You _are_ able to say 'no,' dad. I've heard it plenty of times."

My dad rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Moira, do you hear your daughter? Talking back to her old man like that?" He winced and gulped down more of his coffee. "Actually, I think your mum would be quite proud."

I raised an eyebrow. "Glad you're feeling better," I said around a mouthful of chocolate pastry. "Why are you up, anyways? You just published a new book. I think you're entitled to a few days off."

"Brunch meeting with Phil. I hope the bugger is as miserable as I am," he said. "Dunno what he was thinking, planning a meeting this early after a party."

I snorted, amused. Then I glanced at the clock on the wall--one of those waving cats, it was beautifully tacky--and nearly choked on my Pop-Tart. "I have to run."

"Abandoning your father? In my time of need?" he said, pretending to be miffed. He hid a smile in his coffee cup but I caught it anyways. "Fine. Go better your brain. See what I care."

Laughing, I leaned down and kissed his cheek. It was rough with morning stubble and creased from his smile.

"Don't forget your brother," he called after me as I hurried out of the kitchen.

"I won't!" I threw back. I moved quickly into the living room and then the small hall that held our bedrooms. It was filled with the dizzying, brightly colored paintings that my father collected from flea markets and chic galleries. More art hung around our living room. I stopped in front of Roger's door and started banging--I mean, _knocking_ \--against the wood.

"Go away, Kat!" he finally called back, his voice muffled.

"It's almost 7:00, Roger," I shouted back. There was a loud curse and then a heavy thump that I assumed was Roger falling out of bed. Satisfied that he was up, I crossed the hall to my room. It was a small space, but it was mine. When I stepped inside, I was surrounded by bookshelves that covered just about every spare inch of wall. Where the wall peeked through, it was hidden in most places by art prints. In that way, I guess, I was a lot like my dad.

A soft pattering against the glass told me that it was raining outside. This would make the fifth day in a row, and I was not looking forward to the frizzy mess my hair would become by the end of the day. I quickly shoved my homework, track shoes, and a few textbooks into my bag, then paused in front of the mirror that hung over my desk. At the moment, my brown hair was nicely wavy and still streaked with gold from the summer. I bid it goodbye with a wistful sigh and made sure that I had an extra hair band on my wrist.

The earrings that had belonged to my mother were warm under my fingers as I slid them on, the gold burning softly in the light streaming from my desk lamp. My hoodie--a brilliant red zip-up that my father had given me for Christmas--was the last thing to slide into place. I pulled the hood over my hair for the meager protection it would provide, then threw my bag over my shoulder and hurried off to rush my brother along.


	2. Sheep's Clothing

        The elevator pinged loudly as the doors opened into our building’s marble lobby. I walked across to the big glass entrance that led to the street, not waiting for Roger to catch up.

“Can you go any slower?” I called in annoyance as we emerged onto the sidewalk outside.

“Yes,” Roger snapped back. As if to prove his point, he took the time to actually close the door instead of letting it swing shut behind him, then smirked. Jerk.

We hurried along through the drizzle, passing sex shops and bakeries, the world a swirl of grey sky and rainbow pride flags. The Christopher Street subway entrance was crowded, as it always was this time of morning. For every person in a business suit, there were three more in last night’s party clothes. I let myself get pulled into the crowd, sliding my way between elbows and sharp-edged briefcases. Some people hate the subway **—** the hot, dirty mess of it **—** but I’ve always loved the way you can slip in and out unnoticed, like one unnecessary part in a many-bodied organism. It’s the closest thing to true invisibility that I’ve ever found.

Roger was quiet as we climbed onto the train. People shuffled unconsciously out of his way as he pushed towards the center of the car, with me following in his wake. The floor was wet with cast-off rain, and I slipped as the train lurched forward. Roger grabbed the back of my backpack to keep me from planting my face into the fat guy in front of me.

“Thanks,” I muttered. Roger shrugged.

Around us, the click-clack rush of the subway car roared in our ears, punctuated only by the occasional screech of metal and the bass beat emanating from a goth kid’s headphones. Every stop brought a flood of new passengers, pressing people close together and dripping more water onto the floor.

“Seven, on your left,” Roger hissed in my ear.

I shifted subtly and looked out of the corner of my eye at the guy Roger was pointing out. I had to look away quickly and smother a grin. Sleeping against the door was a man with dreadlocks and skin so dark that it carried shades of purple. He seemed relatively normal at first, until you noticed the glistening green and yellow makeup smeared around his eyes and the protruding tips of fairy wings sticking out from behind his shoulders.

“Nice,” I whispered back, unable to hide my snigger. I felt more than heard Roger’s shake of laughter behind me.

To ease the boredom of long, overcrowded subway rides, Roger and I played a game we affectionately called “Spot the Freak.” As you can imagine, living in Greenwich Village gave us plenty of opportunities to play. There was a rating scale, with 1 being normal **—** for the Village, that is **—** and 10 somewhere on the level of a Cirque-de-Soleil act. This guy, with his strange wings, was definitely at least a seven.

The man at the door shifted, turning a little so more of his wings were visible. My laughter died as I continued to look at him. There was something odd about those wings. They were too pretty and lacked the grime that coated the rest of him. There was a gossamer sheen to them, a slight shimmer that stood out under the fluorescent lights.

Turning, I saw that Roger was also staring at this guy. I raised an eyebrow, a silent “What the heck?” Roger just shrugged before turning his attention elsewhere.

The train pulled into 72nd Street. We let the current pull us out of the car and onto the platform, carrying us through turnstiles and onto the busy street. I lost track of the subway guy as we went. By the time Roger and I emerged, we were almost late for the first bell, and in our dash to 75th, I forgot all about him.

The Wessex School was built on Excellence, Honor, and Tradition. Or so we’re reminded at every school function. The three pillars, as they call them, are mirrored in the three ostentatious columns that frame our school entrance. They’re supposed to emit a sort of grandeur, but with the school’s swooping, gothic architecture and weighty brick structure, they always reminded me more of Edgar Allen Poe. You get the feeling that, when you walk under those arches, something dark and twisted lies inside.

I, of course, was too worried about being late to think about the creepy architecture as Roger and I slipped safely into the crowd of students streaming in through the front doors.

The crowds thinned a little, revealing a group of jocks that were leaning by the top of the stairs. Some of them had their lacrosse sticks with them, and they were tossing around a hard rubber ball like they weren’t about to be late. Seeing us, the biggest of the lot—Joey, the team captain—grinned and waved at my brother. I frowned. Joey was the kind of bully that made it his personal mission to keep the stereotypes about lacrosse players alive.

“Hey Kat!” Joey called, launching the ball at my face. “Catch!”

I wasn’t proud of the squeak I made as I threw my hands up defensively. I have this thing about assholes using my face as target practice. Weird, I know.

Roger caught it before it could come near me. He rolled his eyes as I came out of my terrified cringe.

“Jesus, Kat. It’s just a ball.”

I glared at him. “Just a ball that was going to rearrange my face!”

“I caught it, didn’t I?”

He threw the ball back to the captain, who caught it with a smirk, and then took off to join the jocks that were now laughing at me. They pressed something into his hand, which he quickly tucked into his pocket. Pissed, I started to go to him, to give him a piece of my mind, but was stopped short by one of the creepy defenders.

“Need something, sweetie?” he leered at me. Before I could speak, there was a hand on his shoulder and Roger was there. His eyes flicked to mine. For a second I thought he was going to say something.

“See you later, Kat.” And then he turned away.

So much for sibling loyalty.

The linebacker grinned at me before following my brother. I felt my face heat up. Rather than stand there and watch him actually walk away from me, I turned and began pushing my way into the school. Behind me I could hear Roger laughing. I caught my name, then hurried off before I had to hear anything else or gave into the very real temptation to punch my brother in the face.

It didn’t help my mood that I was heading for French.

See, it’s not that I’m bad at French. Growing up surrounded by cultured literati had ensured that I’d had a very broad, very classical education. I’m actually really good with languages and I can speak French fluently, as well as German. So it wasn’t the language, per se, but the person teaching it.

I made it to class with a few minutes to spare. I stayed close to the people in front of me as I entered the classroom, keeping a weather eye on Mr. Crapaud, our teacher. Fat and bloated, he peered at us over the top of the stately wooden desk that sat at the front of our French classroom. My desk was nestled right next to the windows and about half way down the rows. If I got bored during class, which happened frequently, I could look to my left and see a lovely view of Manhattan. And when I say “lovely view,” I mean brick wall. I’d bet even money that whoever designed this school was either a sadist or had previously worked on mental institutions.

I sat down carefully, my anger at Roger pushed away as I planned my strategy for the next hour. The look in Crapaud’s pale grey eyes practically screamed “pop quiz.” I kept my eyes trained for Jim, who usually sat next to me. His jokes were the only thing that made AP French bearable. In return, I helped him out with his homework and occasionally let him cheat off my tests. Before the bell could ring, I pulled out my phone to text him.

_you still sick?_

I looked up to check that Crapaud was still getting ready. The bell started to ring as the phone vibrated. Words scrolled across the phone, settling on the liquid screen in tiny, bold font.

_yeah :/ sorry i missed the party. how was it?_

_too long_ , I sent back. _5 bucks says pop quiz in Toad’s today._

_i have excellent timing :P_

_whatever. feel better, loser._

I quickly slid my phone into my pocket. Then someone pulled out Jim’s chair. I looked up hopefully, but frowned as I realized that I had no idea who this kid was. He was hot, I thought immediately; but as soon as I thought the word, I realized it was wrong. Not hot. It was too pedestrian a word, too juvenile. He had a different kind of beauty.

The black-haired boy **—** but no, that wasn’t right either. Not man, not boy, not **—** my mind danced around an idea but nothing came forward. The thought skittered away as I frowned up at the stranger. He smiled in return, his teeth oddly yellow against skin so pale I could see the blue ghosts of his veins webbed against his neck.

I’m not going to lie and say that my heart didn’t speed up just a little bit. He certainly wasn’t my usual type. I tended to go with more muscles and less of the anemic, French look. But there was a magnetic attraction between us that I had never experienced before.

That being said, there was something to his smile that made me wonder if it was attraction or danger that had picked up my pulse. He made me dizzy, like breathing second-hand smoke. I smiled back at him, just to be polite, but the entire time, I was fighting a feeling that told me to pick up my stuff and get the hell away. I toyed with telling him that the seat was taken, since it was Jim’s spot, after all, but in the end I stayed quiet.

“ _Bonjour_ , class!” Mr. Crapaud’s booming baritone echoed throughout the room, pulling my attention back to the front. He was grinning, which had the unfortunate effect of squeezing his tiny eyes between folds of fat. I sighed to myself. Definitely a pop quiz. “Today I have a little surprise for you.”

But first, of course, he had to awkwardly introduce the new student.

“We will be having _un examen! C’est tres bon, non?_ ”

Or not.

Crapaud continued to outline our quiz as I snuck glances at the stranger sitting beside me. He, at least, seemed to be listening to the Toad. When I heard the word “oral” my attention shot back. Crapaud was smiling at us, then at a quiet girl who sat in the front. I watched in horror as she stood up, shaking, and began to summarize _Atonement_ in French.

“ _Touche_ , Toad,” I muttered to myself as the people in front of me took their turn at public humiliation. I wracked my brain for something that I could easily summarize but would also have the benefit of annoying my teacher. I finally decided on _Hot Fuzz_ , both because it was British, which would irk him, and because it was a comedy… which would irk him.

When it came to my turn, I looked Crapaud straight in the eye. My French was flawless.

I sat back down with a small feeling of triumph. Crapaud stared at me for a long, long time, his typically smug face expressionless.

“Very good, Mademoiselle,” he finally said, his beady little eyes staring me down. The class began to fidget around us. “Now, Ms. Brown, _s’il vous plait_.”

I blinked in confusion as the Toad’s eyes slid right over the stranger sitting next to me. I turned slightly in my seat to look at the person in question and let my confusion show on my face, then looked down. A small piece of paper had appeared by my elbow. Checking to make sure that the Toad was occupied, I slid it into my lap and glanced down to read it.

_Hello, friend._

That was it. Nothing was written on the back, just “Hello, friend.” Irritated now, I grabbed my pen and wrote, _Who are you?_

Crumbling the paper up, I slid it over to his desk. As I did so, I brushed against his hand, and **—**

_plunged into foaming water, salt filling my mouth as I tried to call for help. It was dark, so dark that the world turned black. Waves pushed back and forth, shoving me down as I fought to stay afloat. I tried to reach the surface, kicked and pushed, but was only thrust down until my feet stopped moving and lead settled on my chest and, god, I can’t breathe_ **—**

I jolted back to reality as the boy slid his hand away from mine. Luckily, the Toad was making an announcement and no one seemed to notice that I was shaking. I tried to calm my breathing, sucking air into my lungs in discrete gasps until I no longer felt the waves pulling me down. It was suddenly freezing.

I looked over at the boy. He was looking away from me, still smiling that toothless smile. He had my note in his hand. In one of those odd, detached moments you get sometimes when you’ve had a shock, I saw that his nails were ragged. Biter, I thought to myself as I burrowed deeper into my red hoodie.

The bell rang. He was up before I could think of anything to say, strolling calmly out of the classroom behind our other classmates. I saw my note on his table and picked it up. He hadn’t written anything else.

“Something wrong, Mademoiselle?” the Toad asked from his desk. I looked up, saw the smirk in his eyes, and had the strangest feeling that he knew what I had seen. I quickly shook my head, standing shakily as I shoved my books into my backpack. I ran out of there as quickly as my sneakers could carry me.

As I pushed into the hallway, I took a deep breath and made my way to the water fountain, desperate to get the cool taste of salt out of my mouth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!
> 
> In addition to fanfiction, I also write YA novels with dark fairy tale twists. Path of Needles is the first in my Paths series. The sequel, Path of Pins, is also available!
> 
> There are 'buy now' links on my website (HannahKollef.com) if you're interested/like the story. There's also some more content on my site, like art from Deviantart-artists, and music written for the series, and some short stories, and fairy tales, and...well...there's a lot. Ch-ch-check it out.
> 
> PS: This is totally © copyright, ok? So no steelies. Seriously. 100% no steelies.

**Author's Note:**

> So!
> 
> In addition to fanfiction, I also write YA novels with dark fairy tale twists. Path of Needles is the first in my Paths series. The sequel, Path of Pins, is also available!
> 
> There are 'buy now' links on my website (HannahKollef.com) if you're interested/like the story. There's also some more content on my site, like art from Deviantart-artists, and music written for the series, and some short stories, and fairy tales, and...well...there's a lot. Ch-ch-check it out.
> 
> PS: This is totally © copyright, ok? So no steelies. Seriously. 100% no steelies.


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